CHORUS. 
O God of many a name!  I 1
Filling the heart of that Cadmeian bride
      With deep delicious pride,
Offspring of him who wields the withering flame! 
      Thou for Italia’s good
Dost care, and ’midst the all-gathering bosom wide[7]
      Of Deo dost preside;
Thou, Bacchus, by Ismenus’ winding waters
      ’Mongst Thebe’s frenzied daughters,
Keep’st haunt, commanding the fierce dragon’s brood.

Thee o’er the forked hill I 2
The pinewood flame beholds, where Bacchai rove,
      Nymphs of Corycian grove,
Hard by the flowing of Castalia’s rill. 
      To visit Theban ways,
By bloomy wine-cliffs flushing tender bright
      ’Neath far Nyseian height
Thou movest o’er the ivy-mantled mound,
      While myriad voices sound
Loud strains of ‘Evoe!’ to thy deathless praise.

For Thebe thou dost still uphold, II 1
First of cities manifold,
Thou and the nymph whom lightning made
Mother of thy radiant head. 
Come then with healing for the violent woe
That o’er our peopled land doth largely flow,
Passing the high Parnassian steep
Or moaning narrows of the deep!

Come, leader of the starry quire II 2
Quick-panting with their breath of fire! 
Lord of high voices of the night,
Child born to him who dwells in light,
Appear with those who, joying in their madness,
Honour the sole dispenser of their gladness,
Thyiads of the Aegean main
Night-long trooping in thy train.

Enter Messenger.

MESS.  Neighbours of Cadmus and Amphion’s halls,
No life of mortal, howsoe’er it stand,
Shall once have praise or censure from my mouth;
Since human happiness and human woe
Come even as fickle Fortune smiles or lours;
And none can augur aught from what we see. 
Creon erewhile to me was enviable,
Who saved our Thebe from her enemies;
Then, vested with supreme authority,
Ruled her aright; and flourish’d in his home
With noblest progeny.  What hath he now? 
Nothing.  For when a man is lost to joy,
I count him not to live, but reckon him
A living corse.  Riches belike are his,
Great riches and the appearance of a King;
But if no gladness come to him, all else
Is shadow of a vapour, weighed with joy.

CH.  What new affliction heaped on sovereignty
Com’st thou to tell?

MESS.  They are dead; and they that live
Are guilty of the death.

CH.  The slayer, who? 
And who the slain?  Declare.

MESS.  Haemon is dead,
And by a desperate hand.

CH.  His own, or Creon’s?

MESS.  By his own hand, impelled with violent wrath
At Creon for the murder of the maid.